


From Yesterday

by dracoqueen22



Series: Dear Lies [4]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Aftermath, Fluff and Angst, Gen, M/M, hard decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:59:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1468780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wheeljack only wants the world to make sense again especially for his conflicted mate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fuzipenguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/gifts).



> Written as a prompt in my April Prompt Palooza. This won't make much sense unless you've read Dear Lies and at least part of Half-Truths.

The silence between them is deafening.   
  
Prowl has nothing more to say and Wheeljack never had the words to argue in the first place. He doesn't want to pick a side. He wants his world to return to its rightful order and make sense again.   
  
Wheeljack glances at their shared berth, expecting another restless night of withdrawn fields, awkwardness, and a lingering sense of disappointment and accusation. Not for the first time he contemplates the spare berth in his lab. Surely it must be more comfortable than this. And sadly, the most volatile object he could face is currently sitting five feet away, door panels arched and rigid.   
  
It's impossible not to take a side, Wheeljack thinks. Because Ratchet is not a mech familiar with fear, but there had been nothing short of terror in his optics. And defeat.   
  
How could Wheeljack not believe him?   
  
He understands. He knows the war within Prowl, the clash between rule-abiding logic and the trusting affection of a brother-found.   
  
Wheeljack understands. That doesn't make the silence in the room any less awkward.   
  
He has to do something. Because Prowl will break before he bends and Wheeljack loves him too much to let that happen.   
  
So he finishes his cube of energon, tucks away the minor project that's been occupying his hands, girds his metaphorical loins, and prepares to face down the fire-breathing dragon. Someone has to broach this chasm between them. It might as well be Wheeljack. If he can face an impending fire ball without fear, he can face his partner.   
  
He won't argue. He won't accuse. He won't demand.   
  
He'll simply do what he's always done. What won him Prowl's spark in the first place.   
  
“What can I do?” Wheeljack asks, daring to approach, to rest a hand on one rigid shoulder, his field gently seeking Prowl's own and requesting permission to link.   
  
Permission he is granted when Prowl's field opens to his, letting him get a slight taste of the turmoil within his mate's spark.   
  
There's a moment. A trembling vent. And then Prowl's helm dips.   
  
“How is that time machine coming along?” he asks, vocals edged with static.   
  
Behind his blast mask, Wheeljack smiles despite himself. The dip of humor is almost an apology. It's close enough to one that Wheeljack is willing to ignore the vitriol from earlier and the past couple of days.   
  
He circles to Prowl's front, lowering himself down to one knee and forcing Prowl to meet his optics.   
  
“I don't think there's a single action that can fix this,” Wheeljack says as his mask splits and moves aside. His vocal indicators are highly inappropriate at the moment.   
  
Prowl shutters his optics, working his intake. “I know. I have already calculated as much.”   
  
Wheeljack shifts his hand from Prowl's shoulder to his helm, cupping his cheek and stroking one thumb over the smooth metal. “And?”   
  
“Numbers do not lie.” Prowl sighs, helm tilting fractionally into Wheeljack's hand. “Ratchet speaks the truth with ninety percent certainty.”   
  
“But that's not what angers you most.”   
  
Prowl's hands flex, tightening in their grip on his knees. “I should have anticipated this, Wheeljack,” he says, and the angst in his tone makes Wheeljack's spark contract. “I knew Jazz could be... obsessive. There has always been the possibility of such a thing occurring. I should have noticed, spoken sooner. Perhaps none of this would have happened. Perhaps--”  
  
“You can't blame yourself for this,” Wheeljack says, interrupting the steady stream of self-accusation that can only lead to greater sadness. “Not anymore than I can for not listening when Ratch first told me things were weird.”   
  
He can't quite forgive himself for that, Wheeljack thinks, but what's done is done. All he can do at this moment is support his best friend now and into the future and promise that he'll never let Ratchet down again. Or at least do his best to try.   
  
Prowl vents softly and lapses into silence.   
  
Wheeljack can all but sense the calculations, the weighing and measuring. There is no 'off' for Prowl's tactical components, not even for life outside of battle. Everything must be weighed within the context of parameters and logistics and variables and given a numerical measurement.   
  
Which is why it has always been something of a miracle they bonded in the first place. It was one of the first truly spontaneous decisions Prowl has ever made and sometimes, Wheeljack suspects not one made by a conscious processor.   
  
Not for the first time does Wheeljack lament the war that made Prowl's analytical battle processor necessary.   
  
Prowl tips forward, his helm landing on Wheeljack's shoulder, silently seeking comfort and Wheeljack is willing to oblige.   
  
“I cannot be impartial,” Prowl says. “I find the truth difficult to accept.”  
  
A bark of bitterness escapes Wheeljack. “Prowl, you aren't the only one. We are all out of our element here. We're just trying to do what's best for everyone.”   
  
The ache in his mate's spark is so tangible that Wheeljack feels the pain himself. He wishes he could fix this, build something that would mend all of the broken bridges, and make the universe the way it should be.   
  
But if Wheeljack could do that, he might as well go back to the beginning, before this whole fragging war even began, and start there.   
  
“I owe Ratchet an apology,” Prowl adds after a moment of silence. “I offended him.”   
  
“You know he won't take it personally.”   
  
“Nevertheless, I was out of line.” A shudder passes over Prowl's plating before he draws back, taking Wheeljack's hand with him and pressing his mouth to Wheeljack's fingers. “I will have to lie to my brother, Wheeljack. How am I going to do that?”   
  
“By reminding yourself of the consequences of telling the truth,” Wheeljack replies, and hopes that it is the right answer. “Can you predict what would be the result of that?”   
  
By the dimming of Prowl's optics and the shiver in his energy field, Wheeljack knows his answer. Yes, Prowl can predict it and yes, the results would not be pretty.   
  
Prowl's door wings drift downward, settling against his back. “I wish it had not come to this.”   
  
“You're not alone in that,” Wheeljack replies. “In fact, you're not alone in anything. Not anymore.”   
  
Prowl's field gently touches Wheeljack's own, full with gratitude and affection. “Yes,” he says. “I know. And I apologize for my behavior. You did not deserve such treatment or to bear the brunt of my frustration.”   
  
“Apology accepted.” It's nigh impossible to stay angry when Prowl has slipped into guilt because there is only mech in all the Autobots with a heavier guilt complex, and that's Optimus himself.   
  
Wheeljack knows that Prowl is honest in his shame. Just as much as he knows that it is completely understandable. He hadn't been angry, only hurt by the growing distance.   
  
Prowl shutters his optics, fingers rubbing a soft rhythm over Wheeljack's. “Where do we go from here?”   
  
Wheeljack rolls his shoulders. “I say we recharge.”   
  
There's a beat of silence before a touch of amusement colors Prowl's field. “Really.”   
  
“Yes.” Wheeljack curls his fingers against Prowl's, attempting to tug the tactician toward him. “You're dangerously undercharged. I'm mentally exhausted and right now, I don't want to think about Ratchet or Jazz or hard choices. I just want to be with you.”   
  
Prowl doesn't resist, folding into his arms as willingly as ever, their frames notching together in a complicated puzzle of metallic edges. “It's a start.”  
  
A start. Right now, that's all any of them can do. Because come morning, the world will only get more complicated.   
  


***


End file.
